


Bless the Child

by DoreyG



Series: Always a Girl!Batman Verse [3]
Category: Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Arkham Asylum, Awkward Conversations, Babies babies everywhere, Bruce Wayne's extreme anger issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dancing, Discussion of Abortion, Discussion of violence against children, Doctors & Physicians, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Genderswap, Inappropriate Kissing, Kid Fic, Maiming of medical equipment, Medical Examination, Medical equipment, Mentioned Wall!Sex, Mentions of Abortion, Mentions of miscarriage, Mob Violence, Morning Sickness, Nausea, Nightmares, Pregnancy, Pregnant crime fighting, Press and Tabloids, Prison, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Revealed, Sleep Deprivation, Tea and Sympathy, The Joker's extreme voyeurism issues, Unconventional Families, Unconventional Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vomiting, swollen ankles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like she <i>meant</i> to get pregnant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's worth mentioning, for this, that I'm very much Pro-Choice and very in favour of a woman's right to do whatever she wants. I just got this idea in my head and decided to wildly sprint with it.

The first time she realizes that something’s wrong is when she has to stop halfway through her usual midnight patrol, after the earlier spates of violence and just before people get bored with the peace and quiet, and sit with her head between her knees. Her stomach rolling, her throat clenching, the taste of bile on her tongue. All that fun stuff that she hasn’t experienced since she took out Scarecrow for the last time several months ago.

She thought, with all the absent minded certainty of somebody who had long ago resigned themselves to never having kids, that you could only get morning sickness _in the morning_.

Shows what she knew.

 

\--

 

It’s not like she _meant_ to get pregnant.

Because, really, what kind of person would look at her life and think that a baby would slot perfectly into it? Diapers in the Batcave, feedings every few hours when she could get back from punching criminals, Alfred babysitting on the nights when she simply _couldn’t_ get away, maybe one of those portable baby slings for the rare nights where she has to go without any back-up.

But she was weak.

( _Maybe Selina will babysit, on the nights when I simply can’t get Alfred_ , she thinks with a touch of hysteria, as she stares as the two clear lines on the stick in her hand, _maybe I can convince the Penguin to coo over the little darling as I put my feet up. Maybe-_ )

But she had desires, at the _worst_ possible time.

She slowly lowers her head, until it _thunks_ against the cold glass of the mirror. Takes deep breath after deep breath – and allows herself to believe, just for a second, that the stick is lying and everything can go back to perfectly normal in the blink of an eye.

 

\--

 

The stick isn’t lying.

“Congratulations, Ms Wayne,” the doctor smiles, taking off her gloves as she comes round the table. It’s the third doctor she’s seen, never say that she’s not tenacious, and the reactions have always been the same – gentle prodding, and then a bright smile and an easy congratulations like she’s supposed to be _thrilled_ about all this, “you are most definitely expecting.”

(To be honest, she’s not sure how she’s supposed to feel about all this.)

“How…?” But she’s used to putting on a mask, used to letting Ruth Wayne cover what seethes inside, and so can at least look like it – rising up with a bright smile and a demure closing of her legs.

(Disgusted? Angry? Anxious? Sad? Sickeningly hopeful? Happy in a way that makes no sense at _all_?)

“About two months, by my reckoning. Though, of course, I would need more information to make a completely accurate estimate. Tell me, when was your last period?”

(She resigned herself to never having a family, that doesn’t mean that she’s never _wanted_ one.)

“About two months ago,” she lies easily, with that flutteringly brainless little laugh that is as much a part of her perfect mask as the make-up she slathers on every morning and painstakingly strips off every night, “hm. Perhaps two months and one week ago, to be more accurate…?”

 

\--

 

The doctor advises her not to tell anybody (“except the father, of course,” she adds, with a wink that makes her stomach start churning again) until the three month mark, just to be safe. She ends up telling Alfred twelve days later, and then only because she rushes straight from her patrol to the toilet for the fifth time in a week.

“ _Pregnant_?”

She gives something that’d resemble a smile, to anybody but him. Gratefully sips the hot chocolate he brought her just after she stopped retching and just before she promised to tell him everything. They’re curled up in the library, the fire warm and the smell of biscuits and cocoa and the closest thing that she’s ever known to _home_ drifting through the air. If it wasn’t for the details, the slight shake of Alfred’s hand and the taste of bile still at the back of her throat, she’d think them back twenty years ago – when she was still young, and less prone to punching people, and thought of Alfred as the only family she had left.

“…I thought you’d decided not to have children, ma’am,” he continues eventually, the shake in his hand stilling just a little as he slowly sinks into the armchair across from her, “I thought that you’d decided, what with your lifestyle-“

“I had,” she offers, and takes another sip of the hot chocolate – it slides down her throat, warming her, and she allows herself half a moment to wonder if the baby feels warm too before she dismisses it, “this was hardly planned, Alfred. I had a moment of stupidity, a moment where I _should’ve_ known better, and… Well, this was the result.”

Alfred remains silent for about a minute. She watches the clock on the mantelpiece behind his head, and practices her breathing exercises. For the first time in years, ever since she raised the whole ‘fighting crime dressed as a bat’ idea with him, she doesn’t know what he’s thinking “…What do you want to do?”

_Abortion,_ the logical side of her mind whispers, _forced miscarriage, even hoping for a miscarriage, getting_ rid _of it._

“I don’t know,” she whispers, and loses all appetite for her hot chocolate – setting it shakily down on the table as her stomach clenches with something that isn’t quite the usual nausea, “I just… Don’t know, Alfred.”

 

\--

 

The logical side of her mind wins out one day, or one night – after her reaction time was a millisecond slower than usual and she almost drowned under Killer Croc as a result, and she asks Alfred to book her into an abortion clinic. He looks at her with sad eyes, and the baby really must be throwing her off because she _still_ can’t read them, but follows her request – finds her a private clinic downtown, small and quiet and unlikely to be disturbed.

She’s a few days shy three months pregnant when she throws on a wig and contacts and clambers into a battered old car that she keeps around for these sort of things. She wishes, right up until she steps into the clinic, that she could stop thinking of that.

The clinic is… Nice. Not anywhere that she’d want to spend a serious amount of time, she’s never liked medical establishments and has a rather dubious opinion of people that do, but okay. Alright. As pleasant as it can be. The walls are purple. The chairs are cushy. There’s a small television on the wall, showing a sleepy looking programme that’s doubtlessly meant to soothe. It’s early, thanks to Alfred, so there are few other people around – a nervous looking teenager with straw coloured hair, a determined looking middle-aged woman half coiled into the side of a resolutely supportive looking man. Okay. Alright. _Pleasant_.

(Secluded, also due to the intervention of Alfred, and for that she’s grateful. Secluded means quiet, and quiet means slightly less chance of attracting protesters. She’s feeling odd enough, she doesn’t need the urge to punch idiots making things any more complicated.)

She’s edgy - not exactly _nervous_ , but jumpy in a way that she wasn’t quite expecting. She tries to read a magazine, but the words all blur together and she discards it with a growl. She examines her nails – but she’s not playing Ruth Wayne today and so she can’t summon up that much honest interest. She tries to lean back in her comfortable chair, close her eyes and breathe slowly through her nose…

But it isn’t working.

_None_ of it is working. Because all she can think of is where she is, and where she’s been, and the doctor waiting behind that door, and hands clawed tight on her hips, and the baby coiled in her belly. Small, slowly developing, with tiny webbed fingers and an almost human face.

She never thought that she’d get so invested in this, she always quite approved of _not_ being so invested in this.

Shows how much she knew, again.

The agitation, at least, serves some sort of purpose. It carries her, barely aware of it, through the stretch of time waiting patiently before her appointment. She bounces her leg, and the clock ticks on in a way so steady and stable that she’d think it was mocking her if she was more insane than she already was. She clenches and unclenches her fists, and watches as the teenage girl with the anxious face is called up. She breathes in through her nose, bites the inside of her cheek, listens to the scornful voice of logic rattling inside her head, tries to imagine neatly sinking her fist into the face of some scum…

And is distracted, sort of, right up until almost thirty minutes have passed – until she opens her eyes again, and sees the flash of urgent news leaping from the screen.

Downtown Gotham, the middle of the day. A litter of cars and smoke, of floating screams and desperately running bodies covered with blood. The camera angle is shaky – but she can still see thugs prowling the sidelines, the flash of a Harlequin outfit and the sound of a Brooklyn giggle, a purple suit and green hair and rolling eyes.

The middle aged woman, still waiting ever so patiently, calmly turns her head into her husband’s shoulder. He huffs in a sharp breath himself, squeezes his eyes shut and visibly starts to count to ten. The lady at the desk, the professional woman with kind eyes, immediately stands and hurries towards the television. The entire atmosphere of the room changes, from calm to dangerous in an instant…

She stares, thoughtfully.

“Ms. O’Neill?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, to the patient looking doctor who waits ever so calmly behind that door, “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

 

\--

 

She tells Alfred, in passing like she doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, that she’s keeping the baby. He looks a little surprised, like she expected, but otherwise doesn’t react – simply nods his head gently, and goes about his business as she retreats gratefully to the Batcave.

She’ll work it out as she goes along, she decides as she settles down on a chair, stares at the Batsuit on its stand and absent-mindedly presses a hand over her stomach. It’s a bad decision, but…

She’s made worse.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time that she throws up outside of the mansion, unfortunately, is after the three month mark has passed. Exactly a week after her visit to the abortion clinic, and she finds herself doubled over in an alleyway – clutching her stomach and staring resentfully at the mess beneath her nose.

“Uh,” Selina, or Catwoman as she is currently, says from the side – concern and confusion mixing in a way that _almost_ sends her stomach whirling yet again, “forgive me if this is an inappropriate question, beautiful, but are you quite alright?”

“Fine,” she grunts, and uses the wall to push herself to her feet – stills at a sudden burst of dizziness, then catches herself with the same determination that has carried her through a thousand fights before now, “absolutely _fine_. Let’s keep going.”

“You just threw up,” Selina points out delicately, with the kind of neat hand gesture that sparks inappropriate amusement every single time, “and I didn’t even hit you anywhere _near_ the stomach. That’s hardly _fine_ , beautiful, that’s…”

She glares.

“ _Troubling_.”

“Your concern is noted,” she rasps, taking a step forward _around_ the puddle of vomit that she deposited so neatly on the floor and attempting to look vaguely threatening, “now, let’s keep _going_. Unless you _want_ to just hand over the Jewel of Keri-Mah and turn yourself in…”

Selina looks dubious, of _course_ she does, but not even she can stop herself from reacting to the threat. Their fight is brief, but invigorating. If Selina has any further suspicions, and she knows her well enough to know that she most certainly does, she keeps them to herself.

\--

Fortunately, as far as you can apply such a word to her life, the Selina-Incident is the last notable appearance of morning sickness and things start to get better from there. She stops calculating the route to the nearest toilet every hour of the day, and starts focusing on her surroundings. She can eat again without feeling terrible, drink again without wanting to coil up into a little ball, drive the Batmobile without the fear of careering off a cliff due to unfortunate timing. 

It’s _brilliant_.

Sitting in the Batcave, on her mandatory day of rest as imposed by Alfred, she finds herself raising her hand and making a slow fist. Staring at it in the dim light, imagining the child inside her.

She smiles, just slightly.

\--

Black Mask tries to massacre half of the opposing crime families, _again_ , and her trail leads her to Arkham Asylum. A twisted blot on the map, an insane island out in the middle of nowhere, a place… That briefly makes her press a hand over her stomach in the Batmobile, take a deep breath before she steps out of the car and onto the damp ground.

The information is easy enough to find, for her at least. Sometimes she thinks, if she ever finds herself entirely bored, that she should offer herself as a filing service to make sure that everything is done _properly_. A rustle of paper, a dip into Zsasz’s file and she has everything that she needs. A quick job, quicker than she was even expecting – in, out, with nobody knowing and nobody wanting to do her harm.

But on her way back…

She pauses, in a darkened corridor. Takes in a deep breath, presses a quick hand to the slight rise of her stomach underneath the suit… And turns on her heel, heads invisibly down the corridors of Arkham after a compulsion that she can’t quite name.

 _He_ , of course, is exactly where she thought he’d be. Exactly where he always is, when he’s not causing greater and greater catastrophes in an attempt to grab her attention. He lies on his bed, flat on his back in his cell. His face is scrubbed of make-up, his hair is still stubbornly green. His nails are long, surely far longer than regulation, as he flips a ball up in the air and catches it – flips up and catches it, flips up and catches it, flips up…

She melts into the shadows. And, half against her will, watches him.

Such a narrow face, so pointy and sharp and surely painful. Such a delicate bone structure, _surely_ more delicate than hers for all that she’s supposed to be the pretty socialite and he’s supposed to be the raving madman. Long hands, suited for murder but also possibly for the piano lessons she remembers from her own childhood. Green hair, _surely_ not the colour he came out of his mother’s womb wearing. The maddest eyes that she’s ever seen, but such _focus_ …

She allows herself, for just a second, to wonder.

But, of course, a second with him is as deadly as a minute with any other. The ball _thuds_ into his hand, sharp and accurate, and he sits straight up on the bed with those mad eyes roving. He focuses in on the shadows, right beyond any _normal_ human sight, and allows his eyes to go back and forth and back and forth and back… 

Until they still, settle right on the place where she’s standing and watching, “ _Bats_?!”

She leaves, then, at great speed. Wondering is as lethal as a knife to the eye, in her life. It always has been.

\--

Dick finds out when she’s about four and a half months along, when she forgets to lock the bathroom door.

It’s been a… Weird night of crime fighting. Not exactly bad, not exactly dangerous or threatening in any way – but _weird_. She lost her balance a few times, while doing manoeuvres that she really shouldn’t have lost her balance on. She almost fell over once or twice, and was only saved from complete embarrassment by decades of training. She actually had to _lean against a wall_ halfway through the night, attempt to gain some measure of stability as the world whirled around her. 

And Dick, being Dick, noticed of course. Frowned at her, stared at her, even looked like he wanted to ask her if she was feeling entirely like herself on the way back home.

…She just didn’t expect him to _burst into her bathroom_.

“Have you ever heard of _knocking_?” She asks waspishly, leaning her weight against the sink as she glares at him. Her hair falls free around her shoulders, messy waves that she’s been too tired to comb into any semblance of decency. Her bra is still on, but her breasts bulge and the gentle curve of her stomach stretches out beneath.

It’s that that Dick’s eyes are fixed on, of course. He’s been trained as a detective, and detectives generally tend to notice when smooth muscle turns into a noticeable bump, “you- I mean, you look-? You’re-?”

“Yes,” and she could lie to him, could spin an extension of the same elaborate fiction that she’s been spinning since her parents died, but what’s the point? Dick is Dick, and Dick is _family_ \- he’d find out eventually, anyway, and he might as well get it from the horse’s mouth as opposed to putting the pieces together when the squalling newborn finally made its appearance, “about halfway along now, by my reckoning.”

“About halfway…” Dick gapes into space for a moment, and then shuts his mouth sharply and marches towards her – she turns with him, arches an eyebrow as he stands trembling in her face, “too far along to abort?”

“Not quite,” she says carefully, and is far too merciful to let the relief settle in on his face for more than a second, “but I’m not going to.”

Dick stares at her, his jaw slowly dropping again.

“…I’m keeping her.”

“I’m pretty sure that you can’t actually know that yet,” he grumbles, and she shrugs gently in reply – somehow knows, in her bones, that the child in her belly is a daughter ready to burst out into the world alive and kicking, “…Dammit. God _dammit_ , Ruth – are you insane? Are you suicidal? _When_ were you planning on telling me?”

“Not any more than I already was, no and…” She hesitates for a second, steps forward and grabs him by the shoulders – forces him to look at her, “I don’t know. Alright, Dick? It’s a big thing, one of the biggest things I’ve ever done. It’s not something that I felt comfortable just blurting out over the phone, or over dinner, or while we were on the streets. It would’ve been _dangerous_.”

Dick stares at her for a second, pallid and stunned.

…Dick gulps, stares down at his feet, stares up to the sink, and then finally looks her in the eyes again just as she’s beginning to lose hope, “Who else knows?”

“Alfred,” she answers instantly, and is pleased to see Dick shrug like he already knew that, “a few doctors, just to confirm my suspicions. You, now. And… Possibly Selina. Although she only has her suspicions, nothing concrete.”

Dick stares for another second-

“Good,” and slowly lifts his hand, covers hers with it like he’s attempting to hold on to something solid in an ever shifting world of sand, “I- Good. But you’re not going to be able to keep this secret forever, Ruth, not in this town.”

“I know,” she says, only a touch sadly, and holds on just as tight, “I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s a girl!”

Dick isn’t with her so she can’t quite justify full on triumph, but she does allow herself a small smug smile. Her baby flashes on the screen – a little easier to see against the blurring grey, and perfectly formed. She’s never felt instant love before, not since she watched her parents bleed out in front of her at any rate, but she thinks that she might be feeling it now. That steadily growing dot somehow symbolizing all that’s good with the world.

…How soppy. She swears that she never used to be this sentimental.

“Have you thought of any names yet?” The doctor casually asks her, as she gets up and starts to get dressed – pressing her hand to her stomach as she does so, feeling the push of muscle and the curve of the bump underneath, “I know that a lot of parents like to wait until they know the gender for definite, but sometimes-“

_Jill_.

The thought comes to her mind as sudden as a blow, and she blinks wildly for a moment before forcing it back. Summoning a smile up to her face as the doctor comes back around the curtain, a comforting beam fixed upon her slightly rounded face “not as of yet, I’m afraid. I was thinking, perhaps, of naming her after my mother? But other than that…”

The joy of instant love has faded to a slight uneasiness. She tries to ignore it, as she gets in the car and drives home. 

 

\--

 

Ruth Wayne doesn’t exactly like to _flaunt_ her body, it’d be dangerous with the amount of muscle she has, but she does generally tend towards more revealing clothing than the Bat. Slim trousers, floaty skirts, tight tank tops to distract nosy male reporters with her breasts, tailored suit jackets to divert curious female detectives with a soft longing for pockets.

By five and a half months the weight of her stomach, even packed in amongst the muscle, is far too much effort to hide.

The sky is blue as she takes the stage. A thousand cameras flash to catch her in their light and she laughs for them – raises her hand to wave to the crowd, and supresses her customary bitterness at the lives of these people. A hive of scum and villainy, less than a mile from where they so blithely stand, and they’re more interested in the sudden weight gain of a brainless little socialite. If her parents had taught her to care a little less, if Alfred hadn’t been there to remind her of that lesson over and over again, she’d think that the world was broken beyond repair.

As it is, she simply smiles. And lets the crowd have what they want, “I am pleased to announce that I, Ruth Katherine Wayne, have recently discovered that I’m expecting a little girl. I’d like to thank you for your interest, and ask that you respect my privacy during this exciting time.”

“Ms. Wayne-!”

“Ruth-!”

“ _Ruth_ -“

“There’ll be no further questions today,” she gives them another smile, painted on like her lipstick, and turns to exit the stage – the Batcave is waiting for her, and Alfred with a sympathetic cup of tea and Dick with a roll of his eyes. Far more interesting things, far more _important_ things – and she intends to dedicate her all to them.

“-Who’s the father?” A whining voice calls behind her, as the hired security close in and the reporters are locked out from her world yet again.

Her all-

She loses a step.

She _gains_ a step, and meanders her way back to the Batcave with not a thought of the dig of a sharp chin or the shattering of a high laugh or the long-fingered, mad-eyed baby potentially waiting in her womb.

 

\--

 

The first time she feels the baby kicking, a flutter of sensation almost like the butterflies that used to be in her stomach, she’s driving the Batmobile on the roads just outside Gotham. She immediately has to freeze, force in a deep breath, pull suddenly to the side and _brake_ as she reaches one trembling hand down.

Kicking.

Her baby, her little girl, is alive and _kicking_.

She almost, oddly, feels like crying. Instead she just gives a sharp little grin, starts up the Batmobile again and speeds off into the night.

 

\--

 

Six and a half months in and the ‘grace period’ (“apparently that’s a thing,” Dick offered, thoughtfully reading a pregnancy book as she sprawled flat on her back and tried to get her breath back from _climbing the damn stairs_ , “awful beginning, alright middle, _awful_ ending”) has most certainly come to a grinding halt.

Everything _aches_. And she’s been fighting crime for years, she _should_ be used to this, but somehow this is even more painful than all those times before. She feels frequently out of breath, usually from the most mundane activities possible, and has grown used to a dull ache in her upper body. Her lower back hurts pretty much constantly, her feet feel like they could drop off at any moment, her ankles are so swollen that it seems that she’s adjusting her boots every single week-

And crime in Gotham, of _course_ , seems to have decided to step up a notch. No rest for the pregnant woman, no grace period for the lady who has so sinfully decided to have a child - _no_. Just an endless escalation, in a way that often makes her want to shred _everything_ just for a moment’s peace.

She breaks a guy’s nose painfully, just because he backs away too slowly. Knocks out two others by slamming them into a wall. Breaks a mook’s arm instead of spraining it, and responds to his offended cries by hanging him off a building. Smart mouths get split lips, attempts at defence get escalated aggression, attempts at _attack_ get a two week stay in the hospital at _best_.

(She’s just so damn _tired_ -)

She’s so caught up in her work, in the bend and stretch of her rage mixed in with the anger of her girl inside her, that she doesn’t notice that she has an audience until she’s almost done. A clapping, hooting, _adoring_ audience that is making more noise than she ever thought it possible for one man to make. She looks up, from forcibly removing a rather stupid piece of scum’s teeth against a metal railing…

And sees _him_. The Joker, perched up on a high platform and bouncing up and down kid a kid in a candy store.

“Look at her _go_!”

She experiences, just for a moment, the strange urge to blow a kiss.

“Go _Batsy_!”

She settles for a strained grimace instead, and knocks another idiot out with her elbow as she moves on.

 

\--

 

_A shot rings out in the night and there’s a scream. Shrill, loud, probably from her mother. Her father crumples to the ground, the white of his shirt going red and sticky. Another scream. Her mother starts forward, raising a hand that twists into a floating claw. The bullet goes right through it, red scatters everywhere. Choking choking choking. Her father collapses to the ground. But, wait, he’s already collapsed. Her mother collapses to the ground, but her pretty gown is already red. Dripping red. Soaking red. So suffused with red that the rest of the world bleeds out around it._

_So much blood._

_Too much blood._

_She tries to reach out, tries to scramble over from her corner, tries to save them because she’s the Bat and she’s eight and her muscles are tensing and tensing and the skirt of her ever so pretty dress is caught between her legs and tripping her-_

_And when she gets there she’s lying on the ground, blood surrounding her in a halo. And a little girl, with hair so black that it’s green and long fingered hands that end in claws, is staring down at her with mad eyes._

She doesn’t get any more sleep that morning.


	4. Chapter 4

She doesn’t really get any more sleep for _two weeks_ after that.

It’s like the baby knows she’s going to be an awful mother, she dwells miserably as she moves (waddles, and Dick has made sure to be _very nice_ to her since he blurted that out) silently through the streets of Gotham, it’s like she’s _expecting_ it and has thus decided to get some sort of revenge in advance. Sleepless revenge, _torturous_ revenge that involves staring at meaningless screens in a sleep deprived haze and accidentally putting milk on Alfred’s pot plants and once almost falling asleep in the back of a police van because it was so nice and _warm_.

_Ugh_.

It’s not like she isn’t going to _try_ , try as hard as she can because this little life has grown from her and _needs_ her, but… She’s already sure that she’s going to fail. Going to make a mess of things. Going to screw up her daughter’s life even more than she’s screwed up her own. Dick’s relative well-adjustedness was a fluke, surely. Everything else that she touches will turn to ash in her hands, _surely_.

She’s going to be distant, grumpy, permanently absent during the most crucial years of her daughter’s life. She’s going to be facing off against the Mad Hatter when her baby needs midnight feeds, taking Ivy back to jail when she wakes up from nightmares and needs reassurance, desperately trying to get through to Two-Face when she’s sneaking out to meet _boys_ (or girls, never say that she’s conservative when it comes to hypothetical bad decisions) and get into trouble.

She’s going to be _dangerous_ , deadly, a constant risk to the thing that she loves most. People will always want to hurt the Bat, and so people will always want to hurt what the Bat loves _most_. She’ll slip one night, on the cobbles of a rainy Gotham, and Killer Croc will rip her baby out of her belly even as she screams. She’ll come back to the nursery one night, tired and reeling from her duty, and find an empty cradle with a riddling note that she’ll never see her little girl again. She’ll get found out one day, her cowl tugged over her head and the flash of cameras in her face, and she’ll return home to find the mansion burnt and gutted and her _daughter_ -

She’s going to be dead, eventually, one way or another. And her daughter will grow up as bitter as her, as twisted, with a hollow gape in her head where sanity used to be.

…And she’s so caught up in these hypothetical terrors, in these lurching fears urged on by the sleepy mist in her head, that she doesn’t notice the actual danger until she’s right on top of it – until a white hand, sharp and bony, reaches out of the dark and grabs her. Spins her around, blinking her way back to life, until she’s face to face with-

“ _Bats_.”

_Well_ , her brain finishes its confused train of thought, as she barely bites back a groan at the sight of him, _at least she won’t be a full orphan, even if she doesn’t know it. That has to make some sort of psychological difference, right?_

“You look…” The Joker studies her for a second, thoughtfully. Gives the kind of smile that has been known to make other maniacs back off due to a sudden sense of unholy terror, “ _terrible_. Tell me, Bats, have you been getting enough food? Drink? Shut-eye? You _know_ that neglecting your perfect, _sculptured_ body is a recipe for disaster?”

She sways on her feet for a second, wearily.

(She’s too tired for this.)

She _groans_ , out loud and loud _enough_ to make the Joker actually pause and stare, “are you plotting anything?”

“I’m _always_ plotting something, dearest-“

“Are you plotting anything _urgent_?” She bites back on a yawn, fixes her most formidable glare on him – he simply looks puzzled, as opposed to completely terrified, but that’s generally routine with the Joker, “as in: is going to go off tonight? Or needs to be stopped tonight so it doesn’t destroy the city tomorrow?”

The Joker only keeps staring at her, more and more puzzled “…You really _are_ neglecting yourself, Ms. Batty.”

“ _Joker_ -“

“You need to _relax_ ,” but the Joker will never, ever listen to reason – and it’s a sign of how sleep deprived she is that she even _tried_. He only gives a small, sly smile. Twitches his fingers like he’s just come up with the best plan of the _century_ , “or chillax, as the kids these days are saying. You deserve a night on the town, Bats – a _proper_ night, as opposed to your normal MO of punching and bleeding and foiling all the fun. You need a _laugh_ , a _jaunt_ , a _dance_ -“

She stares at him warily for a second, half-considering just cutting her losses and diving off the building again.

“…And it’s been _so long_ since we last danced. Hasn’t it, Batsy?”

And before she can stop it, before she can do more than _flinch_ in terror because he’s got his hands on her sides and _what if he feels the bump?_ , his arms are around her and he’s dipping her – the type of swooning movie hero pose that Ruth Wayne always gets misty eyed over, whenever she has to watch them.

One. Two. Three.

They move in a stiff box - backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. It takes a while, dazed as she is, to recognize it as a waltz – and then she just has to glare up at him because _seriously_? She learned the waltz as a child, a little innocent girl untouched by loss or hate. Even then, even still on the perfect path to being a pampered little lady, she had thought it boring and tedious and possibly the least Joker-ish thing on the planet.

One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

The Joker grins at her, and she _really_ hopes that he hasn’t magically developed the ability to read her thoughts because _screwed_ wouldn’t quite cover it, and suddenly the tedious little box becomes a bit bigger. _Sweeping_ , as opposed to tight. Dangerous, as opposed to the most traditional thing in the world. He spins her around, to make her cape unfurl behind her. Pulls her close and presses their cheeks together and croons an odd tune as she contemplates biting off his ear.

One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. One. Two. _Three_.

And the dance changes again, evolves again. So they’re no longer dancing a waltz, the most boring of childhood memories, but a dance entirely of their own tune – bodies pressed together, hands clutching at hips and shoulders, faces so close that they’re sharing breath. It’s _insane_ , it’s _mad_ , if it wasn’t for her current situation it’d rank as the most nonsensical thing that she’s ever done. But- 

One-

_But_ -

When he kisses her she can’t help but lean up into it, a press of teeth and tongue to seal the insane left turn that her life has taken. He kisses just like she remembers – sharp and hot and _insane_ , a flash of open madness that calls to the glassy shriek buried far under the mask of Ruth and just under the mask of the Bat. His teeth are sharp, his lips are cracked, his breath tastes of dark and wicked things – how is she supposed to resist?

His face is thoughtful, when they separate, his mad eyes are dark. His long fingers flutter insistently on her hips, his unnaturally green hair glows in the low light and his make-up has flaked just a little – so that she can see a tiny flash of almost-human skin lurking underneath. 

She takes in a deep breath-

“You’re getting _fat_ , Bats.”

-And feels _entirely_ justified in punching him in the face. 

 

\--

 

“So,” she says brightly, the next time she visits the doctor for a check-up, “I’m due soon, aren’t I? One more month and I’ll be able to hold my beautiful little girl in my arms, right?”

She knows her talents, so she’s pretty sure that she manages to avoid sounding completely desperate, but… Well, she _is_. Six months, technically eight but she’s a little dubious on counting the oblivious stage, is a long time. A long time of the aches, the pains, the constant need to go to the toilet. The steadily swelling ankles, the frequently aching head, the fact that she can’t actually sleep until she reaches the point of utter _exhaustion_. The difficulty of climbing buildings, taking out bad guys, levering herself out of bed. The mix of anxiety and anger and _boredom_ -

She just wants it to be over.

…The doctor is smiling a soothing smile that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, “well, actually, that’s somewhat of a _myth_. Most women have a due date between 38 and 42 weeks. Nine months is the standard most often referred to – but, really, a lot of pregnancies tend to last to the ten month mark-“

Her entire face twitches, a break in character that she hasn’t indulged in for a _long_ time.

“That’s… _interesting_.”

The doctor is somewhat surprised to find the arm of her chair twisted out of shape. She promises to pay for the damage, with a resumed smile, and walks out of the room at a sharp pace – greets Alfred’s quizzical smile with a glare.

Some criminals are going to get _maimed_ tonight. 

 

\--

 

The first, and only, person outside of the family to learn about _her_ pregnancy (not Ruth Wayne’s, she’s well aware that it’s odd to separate them but she’s not going to change the habit of a lifetime now) is Selina. And she’s honestly, _honestly_ , not sure whether to be annoyed or relieved.

“You’re getting big,” she says casually one night, dodging a particularly messy blow with surprising ease.

“Shut _up_.”

“Not obviously so, don’t worry, but I know you well enough to notice a few changes,” another blow dodged, another insolent smile. If she has to tolerate another eight weeks of this, another eight _weeks_ of getting humiliated in increasingly embarrassing ways, then she might well snap, “I thought it was important for you to maintain your svelte physique? To be the dark defender that Gotham _needs_?”

She swings another punch, Selina executes another duck.

“What happened, did one of your bats get splatted and trigger a junk food binge?”

She attempts a kick, Selina skips over her ungainly flail with an _annoying_ amount of glee.

“Did the little children of Gotham start leaving Bat Treats out for you again, and you simply couldn’t resist their tasty temptation?”

She attempts a full body charge, Selina simply spins around her like it’s the easiest thing _in the world_.

“Oh, oh, but don’t tell me! Did you meet some _guy_ , fall _madly_ in love, open your lovely long legs to him and then discover a few weeks later-?”

She-

Freezes solid – hands pressed against the wall to regain some measure of balance, breath shaking in her lungs as she ever so slowly turns her head to watch the _stunned_ expression furl across Selina’s face.

“Oh,” she says, and licks her lips, “…I was only _joking_.”

 

\--

 

(“Ruth Wayne,” Selina says wonderingly, a few hours later. They’re curled up in one of her hideouts, a snug little place with pictures of cats on the walls. She’s gone off all kinds of caffeine, doctors’ orders, and so is reduced to drinking a glass of cranberry juice on Selina’s most comfortable sofa. She wonders if she’ll be allowed to go on a caffeine binge, when this is all finally over. She somehow doubts it, “well, now I feel like a fool.”

She smiles slightly, her first proper one since she last saw the Joker. Takes another sip and lifts her shoulders calmly, “you never guessed?”

“You’re a surprisingly good actress, Ruth,” Selina sighs, taps her nails slowly on her thigh. She, as a kind of concession, has a mug of herbal tea in front of her – she appreciates that, as much as she can appreciate anything with a baby constantly bouncing on her bladder, “I thought you were smarter than you acted in public, _anybody_ is smarter than you acted in public, but… This? I never thought you could be so-“

“Insane?” She offers, quirking her eyebrow, “psychotic? Prone to putting people in hospital for the slightest of infractions?”

“- _Driven_ ,” Selina corrects, amusement dancing in her eyes – she doesn’t look pissed, at least, which is most definitely something. She also doesn’t look murderous, which is also a rather nice thing. She only looks… Fond, and understanding, and _understandably_ curious as she leans forward through the steam, “tell me, how far along are you?”

She thinks for only a moment before shrugging casually. This isn’t that much to give, all the big shocks are already out of the way, “eight and a half months.”

“ _Eight and a_ -“ Selina’s entire face twitches, she sits back with an expression of open amusement, “I must say, Ruth, I’m starting to rethink the insane thing. If I was eight and a half months pregnant… Well, I’d never get eight and a half months pregnant in the _first_ place.”

She smiles a little at that, understands it. Selina, in her way, is saner than she is – she’s made her choices, and stuck to them. She sometimes wishes that she could’ve done the same… But then her daughter kicks, hard and fast in her stomach, and she can’t regret. Not really. “Will you tell anybody?”

“About my passionate desire not to grow a parasite inside me? Already have,” Selina smirks a little in reply, sighs at the second arch of her eyebrow and slowly shakes her head, “your secrets are safe with me, Ruth. All of them. You know how I feel.”

A feeling of warmth suffuses her chest. She slowly reaches out a hand, and smiles when Selina cups it in reply.)

 

\--

 

Jim, thankfully, doesn’t _quite_ figure it out – but he is Jim, and so knows that _something_ has changed. Is coming close to changing forever, an irrevocable crossroads that makes her stomach seize and her heart soar every time that she thinks of it.

He takes her aside one day, just after she’s passed the nine month mark. Stares at her with worried, paternal eyes as he holds her elbow. She’s not quite sure how to feel, where to look – Gordon’s never quite been a father figure to her, not since she was an eight year old child bloody and stunned in the rain, but… He’s something.

“Are you alright?”

He’s something.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She asks calmly, and slowly raises her chin – gives him the not quite smile that she saves specially for him, “you have to act quickly, commissioner, if you don’t Thorne will wriggle through your net like a fish. _Again_.”

Jim withdraws at that, slightly, but doesn’t let go – keeps looking over her face silently, trying to take in any tells. She’s nervous, she’s never been so nervous as she has these past nine months, but she covers it – keeps up that not quite smile, and reminds herself that her secrets are hers to keep, “you know, if there’s anything wrong…”

Her secrets are hers to keep.

“I mean, if there’s anything that we can help you with. That _I_ can help you with…”

Her secrets-

“Well-“

“I know, Jim,” she whispers, and lifts her hand to cover his own – feels the throb of life in her belly, and shoves the stab of fear down so deep that it lurks in the shadows with her dead-eyed parents and that night nine months ago when she made the best mistake of her life, “now go catch Thorne.”

 

\--

 

The last night that she spends pregnant, miserable and swollen and oddly jubilant feeling despite all that, is in the Batcave. Bright screens flashing around her, data scrolling from a thousand sources, and the Batmobile waiting behind. Suit hung neatly on its rack, and casual dark clothes swaddled neatly around her body (her bump) as she sips at a glass of water and taps on a keyboard.

She’s finally reached the point in her pregnancy, not _technically_ overdue but so very pregnant that she feels like it, where she can’t really go out anymore. She tried, just last night in fact, but both Dick and Alfred blocked the door and informed her that there was no way that they’d let her go into labour on the streets of Gotham.

(“What if you’re fighting Killer Croc when it happens?” Dick had demanded semi-hysterically, hurrying her back to her bed as she very stubbornly attempted to glare a hole through the side of his head, “what if _he_ has to help you deliver the baby? I know you’re perfectly self-sufficient, Ruth, and I know that’s a ridiculous scenario – but what _if_?”)

It’s been a long journey, these nine months.

She presses an absent hand over her belly, smiles a little as she thinks of it. Even one month ago, coiled up before a disbelieving Selina, she’d never really saw herself here. Even three months ago, dancing on a deserted rooftop, she’d never imagined that she’d keep going this long. Even seven months ago, when she left the clinic with the decision to keep her baby shining firm in her head, she’d never _expected_ to get this far. Even _nine_ months ago-

Well.

(She wonders, absently, if anything would’ve changed if she’d been able to see this glimpse of the future nine months ago. If she wouldn’t have given in to her desires, so unexpectedly. If she would’ve turned away, from that flashing smile and mad laugh, and got on with her life. If she wouldn’t have followed the Joker down that dark alley, and punched him then kissed him, then let him press her against the wall and slide _in_ until they were both shuddering…)

(It’s not worth wondering about, really.)

She watches the screens scrolling, thoughtfully. She watches the data buzzing, quietly. She watches her hand stroking over her stomach, over her daughter coiled up tight and ready with green hair and mad eyes… _Happily_.

She watches, absent mindedly wondering about the slightly slick feeling gathering between her legs…

(And she wouldn’t change it for the world.)


End file.
